Numbered
by turtledoves
Summary: "You will meet him on five different days." The psychic opens her eyes, staring at Annie with intent. "No more, no less. Do you understand?" / In which sometimes it is best to believe in the unbelievable. One-shot. Odesta. AU. For Iris.


**a/n [**_The ending is so rushed and I am so sorry. This is unbeta'd so I'm just gonna apologize now for all of the mistakes. __Disclaimer: I honestly know nothing about tarot cards I read an article on the Internet and put a spin on things so that they could aid the plot. For Iris on her birthday; happy birthday, darling!_**]**

**0**

"Annie Cresta," the lady says, voice low and sharp. "I've been expecting you."

At the door, Beatrice pauses, tightening her grip around her sister's fingers, but Annie slips away easily and walks up to the woman at the table. She climbs into the wooden chair, and then looks around, and back to the entrance where Beatrice still stands, staring wide-eyes at the psychic inside.

"Come on, Bean," Annie says, pushing the second chair with her hands so Beatrice has easy access.

"How did you know her name?" she asks the woman, gingerly sitting on the edge of the seat.

"Because she's magic," Annie admonishes.

"I'm psychic," the woman corrects, then spreads her hands. "What can I do for you today?"

It was their father's idea, when Annie tugged on his arm and asked what the strange purple tent was for, to go inside and get their fortunes told. He handed Annie the five dollars, which she grasped tightly in her hands, old enough at six to realize the importance of holding onto the money. Beatrice had just crossed her arms, not believing that he'd give into the sham just to fuel Annie's curiosity. Nevertheless, she let herself be ushered inside.

"Can you do that card thing?" Annie asks, her face alight as she stared at the fake crystal ball. "Or... or, the hand one? Or turn Bean into a cat!"

"Tarot cards," Beatrice suggests.

The psychic grins at Annie, and Beatrice sits up straighter, but the lady only laughs. She shuffles the cards in her hands, Annie transfixed on her hands the whole time, eating up the performance. When the time comes to pick three, Annie pokes at each one, claiming it's because she has to pick the _most absolute best_ cards.

The first is the Two of Cups.

"Soul mates," the psychic says with a smile.

Then, the Five of Cups.

"Inevitability." She frowns.

Annie jerks back at the last card, looking at the psychic as if she's been betrayed, and Beatrice fights hard not to tell the girl it's all a scam, that the Death card doesn't mean anything.

"Relax," the woman says. "It means only sacrifice."

"Sacrifice what?" Annie asks, hesitantly leaning towards the table again.

"There will be a boy," the psychic says, closing her eyes, as if preparing the big finale, "and you will have a choice. You will choose to let him go."

"Why would I do that?"

"You will meet him on five different days." The psychic opens her eyes, staring at Annie with intent. Beatrice will never forget the intensity in her eyes. "No more, no less. Do you understand?"

"What do I do?"

"Inevitable," the psychic cries, and Annie leaps back again, this time getting out of the chair to stand behind it like a shield.

"Tell me!" she commands.

Beatrice grabs Annie by the hand and pulls her out the flap of the tent while the psychic moans in their wake, moaning of the loss of true love.

Years later, it's not a story that Beatrice will let Annie forget. She tells it to her friends, at family parties, and at random moments to her sister, usually when Annie is bothering her.

"You should've seen your face!" she'd tease. "Like you'd seen a ghost."

"Soul mates," Beatrice would moan, throwing an arm over Annie while they sat on the couch. "Inevitability. Sacrifice!"

"There will be a boy." She'd laugh, poking Annie in the side to make her shriek.

"Shut up!" Annie would snap back, cheeks burning with embarrassment.

Slowly, it all becomes engrained in her mind—a memory that you remember with so much clarity only because you've been trying so hard to forget it. The two people meeting in the card of the Two of Cups, the man in the black cloak looking like death himself in the Five of Cups, and Death with the knight riding into the battlefield, the bodies underfoot, as he brings souls home. The grin of the psychic when she first walked in, as if she knew a secret that Annie could never begin to comprehend. The sorrow in her eyes as she left, hands clenching so tightly around Bean's that she left half-moons in her sister's skin.

**1**

She's sixteen and waiting for something interesting to happen.

Statistically, the more times she spends sitting at the bus stop, the more likely the chance that something will come along and drastically change her life. (Though, at the rate things have been going, she was desperate for the slightest chance of anything at all.)

To say the least, she's not expecting her moment to come by accidentally spilling her Starbucks latte down the front of a boy's white T-shirt.

It's his fault, really. He was walking on the curb, balancing as if on a tightrope, when a car sped past, a little too close and a little too fast, causing him to leap onto the safety of the sidewalk. And right into Annie Cresta. He ends up on the ground with her latte, while she leans against the pole of the bus stop sign, trying to catch her balance.

"Watch where you're going!" she cries, as if it makes any difference now.

He pulls at the bottom of his shirt, trying to air out the quickly forming stain. "You should watch where you stand."

Wildly brushing her mussed hair into place, she glares at him, opening her mouth and trying to think quickly enough of a smart comeback. He raises one hand in surrender, the other still focused on his shirt. "Kidding, kidding," he says. "I'm sorry."

"It wasn't very good anyway," she says, stepping forward to kick the empty Starbucks cup out of the way and offer him a hand.

He takes her hand, but gives it a shake in greeting instead of pulling himself up. "I have to wait for the bus," he offers in explanation. "No use in getting up now."

"Headed home?" she asks.

"San Francisco."

"But your shirt's ruined."

He grins. "It's vintage now."

Without thinking, she laughs, and amazes herself at how carefree she's acting. This her adventure, she decides first, the one thing she's been looking for every Saturday at the dingy bus stop in the center of town. Then, from the edges of her mind, come the decade old words, "There will be a boy." She pushes back deep into her memory, and takes a seat on the sidewalk next to him, careful to avoid the remains of her latte.

"Finnick Odair," he says, belatedly following his handshake with his name, she supposes.

"Annie Cresta. Why're you going to San Fran?"

She decides that his smile is contagious. "Why not?"

And without her usual hesitation, without fidgeting with the bracelets around her wrists and twisting them around and around, without any awkward pauses, she talks to him, simple as can be, and feels herself rooted closer to earth with each word.

**2**

Out of all of the places, she thinks, of course it would be the cereal aisle in Safeway.

He's holding two boxes in front of him, _Fruit Loops_ and _Cocoa Puffs_, and the first thing she thinks of to do is grab a box of _Honey Bunches of Oats _from the nearest shelf and shove it in his arms.

Not to her surprise, he recognizes her as quickly as she did him, which is impressive since they haven't spoken for four months.

"I'm not interested in healthy, Cresta," he says. "I want something that tastes good enough that I can relish the taste throughout English instead of paying attention. It keeps me alive."

"It might possibly kill you," she deadpans.

"As melodramatic as always. Glad to see you haven't changed."

He hands her back the _Oats_ and places both of his boxes back onto the shelf where they came from. Her only warning is an elfish grin before he's grabbing her by the arm and pulling her through the store. He finally stops at the end of the line to the little Starbucks booth at the front of the store.

"I think I owe you one." He smiles.

"I spilled it on you, though!" she protests, gently pushing him once she's regained order in her head and discovered his motives. "We're even, I promise."

"Then I guess you'll have to spill this one, too," he says.

He hands the barista his money before giving the order, to ensure that she can't pay for it. There are many options going through her mind: to buy one for him, to indeed dump it on him, to run away, etc. But the fact is that she only brought enough money for her dinner and tomorrow's lunch, and she could use the caffeine.

So when the barista asks for the size, Annie answers tall before Finnick can order something atrocious—even though she'd had a grande the day they first met.

"Are you happy now?" she asks, taking a sip. When she closes her eyes, it's almost like she's back in winter, sipping homemade lattes on the floor of the family room, the fireplace turning the whole room a shade of orange.

"Ecstatic," he replies.

They part after she purchases her meals, him leaving through the east exit while she goes west. She wonders when they'll collide again, or if they ever will. If they did meet again, she decides, taking another sip of her latte with a smile, it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.

**3**

The concert was Bean's idea. _Do things, meet people_, she had said. _Have a life, for God's sake._

She felt nothing but anxiety until she spotted Finnick by the front of the stage, leaning against the fence between the small wooden stage and the pen that trapped the audience like birds.

Until she noticed the flock of people around him, laughing the same laugh he had, and all sporting matching bottles in their hands.

She fiddled with her bracelets, trying to melt back into the crowd as if she hadn't been headed straight towards him. Someone with a spray-painted fedora stops a few feet away from her, and she studies it, memorizing the individual droplets of paint to pass the time.

He finds her, though, nonetheless. His hand rests on her shoulder, and she's thankful to find that the other hand is no longer holding the beer his friends snuck in. "Annie Cresta," he shouts, leaning towards her ear just in case he wasn't loud enough. "What a surprise."

"Bean dragged me along," she explains.

"Because I'd totally thought you came here by yourself," he scoffs, throwing an arm over her shoulder. "Want me to help you escape?"

"Shouldn't you be with your friends?"

"They won't miss me for one night. C'mon."

She wonders idly, while she's sitting in the grass on the hill above the concert, her hip pressed to Finnick's, how they became friends. It seems like a movie cliché, and the thought almost sends her into a fit of laughter. Her life as a movie? Surely, it would only end in disaster.

"Do you think people can predict the future?" she asks suddenly, the question burning holes in her mind finally breaking through into the open air. She feels exposed when it's out, like she's let out a secret she wasn't supposed to tell.

"Of course not," he answers. "Why?"

"Just thinking." She shrugs.

But once she's spoken the possibility, it's impossible to close her mind and shut it back in. Soul mates. Inevitability. Sacrifice. The three words dance on her tongue, and she wants to breathe it out, let it join the possibilities the night sky offers, but she keeps her lips sealed tight.

Impossible, she tells herself over and over again.

_But if it was_, a small voice nags, _what would you do?_ And at least this is an answer she knows without a doubt. If it's been about Finnick all these years, then she'll do whatever's in her power to make sure she has more than her five days. She wants an eternity to be his friend.

**4**

"Annie Cresta," the lady says, and it's like Annie's been transported back in time.

She thinks, quickly, about the events in the past hour that led her right back into the purple tent, the one that she avoided every year at the fair since.

When she arrived at the bus stop that morning, relishing in the memories of days spent sitting on the metal seats waiting for nothing, Finnick had been leaning against the old ad on the side of the stop as if he'd been expecting her the whole time.

"Would you join me on a trip to the fair?" he'd asked.

It was not in her ability to say no.

The Tuesday morning was quiet at the fair, and together they raided the food booths, Finnick eating both his food and what she couldn't finish. _Teamwork_, he'd called it. _Pig_, she corrected.

They'd walked passed the tent after about three hours, right after entering the rides section and Finnick proudly walked everywhere with his wristband held in the air in triumph.

"I have to go to the bathroom," she lied. "Go ride that scary one you've been talking about the whole time."

He'd grabbed her hand, briefly, to bend and press a kiss to the back. "I'll await your return, milady."

She remembers, embarrassingly enough, how she paused outside the tent, her lips slowly spreading into a smile while she touched the back of her hand.

"It's you," Annie says now, staring at the psychic in shock. The same pink hair, bright lipstick, fake eyelashes that lurked in the back of her mind. It occurs to her why her sister paused by the door all those years ago, even without having been here once, the scene seemed to be of a horror movie. Brightly colored paintings and dolls, fairy lights dangling above her head, the crystal ball in the center of the table emitting a faint glow.

"Who else did you expect, my dear?"

And even for a creepy psychic, it's a fair question.

So, she sits down, on the edge of the seat, and hands the psychic five dollars. "Change your prediction," she requests.

"I can't. I only foresee the future, I don't make it." She sounds sincerely sorry, but Annie isn't buying a second of it; it's strange, she thinks, how she'll believe the entire thing is a con, except for the outcome.

"But I want it to be different."

"It's inevitable."

"How do you remember me?" Annie asks, leaning across the table to see if the psychic has a cheat sheet or something. Anything to explain the air of mystery and the uncertain fluttering in Annie's stomach. "After all these years?"

"I am so sorry," she says instead, "for your loss."

Annie leaves the tent, no more questions asked, before the psychic can say anymore nonsense, to bury any more lies inside her head. Se can't figure out why her eyes are watering as she leaves, but she knows that she will not allow them to fall.

She finds Finnick sitting on a bench, picking at blue cotton candy. He smiles when she sits next to him, offering her the cone, which she declines. Once he's finished the entire thing, so quickly she's not sure if she imagined it being there in the first place, he stands up and holds out his hand for her.

"Ferris wheel?" he asks.

Her stomach flutters again, this time different from the coolness of the psychic's words, and smiles. Against her wishes, she responds, "As long as you don't try to kiss me."

"It's cute." He grins. "How you think you won't fall for me."

She already has.

**5**

They're sitting on the pier; his legs are dangling off the edge, and she's perpendicular to him with her feet pressed against the pier's post and her back against his shoulder. The sun is casting a strange glow on them, making them almost dark against the orange of the sky behind them. But it's impossible to mistake the brightness of Finnick's smiling or the shine of her dripping wet hair.

Annie traces over the edges of the photo, hands shaking, as she tries not to cry.

It was Bean who had taken the photo from her kayak a couple hundred feet out to sea, not knowing then the significance that it would have now.

They had run into each other at the beach, believe it or not, and he immediately took it upon himself to give her, quote, the best beach day ever, unquote.

And it was, for the most part. They'd built snowmen from sand, chased each other around the beach, and drew pictures in the damp sand left by the receding tide. (She'd written I love you once, but was sure to make the tide would wash it away before Finnick looked over to her, ready to show her another masterpiece.)

The day wasn't supposed to end with him leaving. Granted, he'd asked her to come, and he genuinely wanted her along, to explore the world on the adventure they'd always wanted, and it shattered her when she saw the disappointment in his face when she had to tell him no.

"Dad and I are sailing to the end of the Baja California peninsula," he had told her, "and, uh, you're welcome to join us."

"Will it take the whole summer?"

"Yeah." His head briefly settled on top of hers, but the comforting weight was gone before she had the time to appreciate it. "We should be back right before college starts up."

"I can't, Finn," she whispered. "I have plans at the end of July."

"Oh. I guess I'll see you in three months, then?"

"We'll make something work," she agreed. They spent the next half hour waiting for sundown, neither of them saying a word, neither of them daring to break the silence. Annie wondered if the moment seemed as magical to him as it did to her.

When Bean came ashore, waving her camera in hand and boasting of her shots, they finally decided it was time to say goodbye.

"See you, Cresta." He smiled at her, once last time, and she can still see his eyes crinkling in the moment.

Annie presses her fingers to her lips and remembers when she'd hastily leaned in to kiss him, not trying to make it perfect or special, because she knew that they would never be, but because she had to know what it felt like, at least once, to press her lips to his.

"Stay safe," she whispered, before running after her sister before Finnick could say or do anything. The psychic's prophecy was fresh in her mind, more than ever. Five days, five days, five days, she repeated.

It was on the news two months later; some fishermen found the boat that was later identified as the Odair's floating upside-down off the coast of Tijuana. Caught in a storm was the general consensus of the cause. No one suggested the fault of a little girl who wandered into the psychic's tent, a smile bigger than the moon on her face, and made the mistake of befriending the best man she would ever know.

Tears trip onto the photo, creating a trail one by one, until Annie can't remember why she started crying in the first place because now it's only a jumble of everything wrong in the world and everything she's ever done. (In her mind, the two lists intermingle an awful lot of the time, but the biggest, most jarring mistake that she will never understand, is why, in the end, did she ever walk away from him?)


End file.
